Back in the seventies, catalog shopping was all the rage and buy now, pay later was my old Mum’s mantra. The entire family was kitted out on the never–never, all for a few shillings a week for 52 weeks. Her catalog of choice was Freemans and no one was more excited than me when the latest glossy collection dropped on the mat. For some strange reason, I was always drawn to the men’s underwear section – endless hours of fun thumbing and fumbling. I can’t think why. But, for me, it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘mail order’.
My best friend at primary school was a boy called Christopher and, one Saturday, Christopher and I decided to go newt hunting on Wimbledon Common. He arrived at my gaff fully prepared for our safari in all-weather gear – sensible shoes and waterproof anorak. And what was I wearing? A little two-piece number I’d picked out from Mum’s catalog – matching tight t-shirt and skimpy shorts in sunny yellow towelling with bright blue piping.
I was 10. Not gay at all. And, yes, it rained.
